


HollowMan

by Semjaza



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Affection-Starved Nero, Anal Sex, Dark Dante, Darkfic, Demonic Tendencies, Devil Blood Messes Up Your Life, Devil May Cry 4 (Game), Disturbing Themes, Drinking, Dysfunctional Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, Post-Devil May Cry 4, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, Unsafe D/s vibes, You Have Been Warned, dante x nero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 00:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18304424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semjaza/pseuds/Semjaza
Summary: Maybe I’m lonely and you’re something to do… Nero follows Dante home after Fortuna, but things don’t go as planned. A snapshot of an extremely dysfunctional relationship.They were two of a kind; they couldn’t escape each other anymore than they could escape themselves. Sitting next to Dante, Nero was as contented as he’d ever been. He figured it was irrefutable proof that the world was fucked.





	HollowMan

**Author's Note:**

> Rated E for language, violence, sexuality, disturbing content (including dubcon), and dysfunctional relationships. Definitely a darkfic. Dante is based on a mix of the anime, DMC2, and DMC4 characterizations, with an added dose of utter bastard and all the heart stripped out of him. Nero is… working through some things. Title and italicized lyric snippets are from the song ‘Hollowman’ by Econoline Crush. I finished this years ago but always intended to post it with some lighter content – those stories didn’t get finished, so here’s the darkfic by itself. Please note the tags and warnings – if you don’t like the pairing or darkfic, don’t read. I do write other stuff.

 

 

_Maybe I’m phony, baby, just like you…_

  

Dante wasn’t slurring his words yet, but by all rights he should’ve been drunk. They’d started out drinking water and rye about three hours ago, as soon as he and Nero returned home from the day’s mission. Their hands had left bloody fingerprints on the glasses, the office’s doors, everything they touched. Eventually, pouring the whiskey into tumblers had seemed like too much effort, and they passed their sixth bottle back and forth, sliding it along the grimy bar top even though there was only a foot of space between them.

 

Nero let his elbows rest on the dusty surface, his head buzzing. He wanted a shower and a nap, and to be perfectly honest, a little time away from Dante. Dante’s mood was darker than usual, and Nero knew the whiskey wouldn’t help that one bit. He eyed the empty water pitcher longingly, wondering if he could manage to stand up and stagger to the kitchen to refill it. His devil blood burned off any alcohol he consumed at a heightened rate, but even it couldn’t match the pace set by Dante. Nero closed his eyes, resisting the urge to put his head down, afraid the room might start to spin. While he could certainly hold his liquor better now than in Fortuna, he wasn’t sure if it was due to his developing demonic nature, or all the practice he got living with Dante.

 

Before the ocean breezes could even begin to clear the smoke over the ruins of Fortuna, Nero had found himself rummaging through his locker in the barracks, gathering all his weapons and a change of clothes, and racing for the docks. He knew if he didn’t reach Dante before the hunter caught the ferry back to the mainland, he’d never be able to find him again. It had seemed important at the time, immensely so, but now looking back Nero wondered what the hell he’d been thinking. It’d been obvious that Dante wanted nothing more to do with Fortuna or its cult. He’d ignored Nero for the entire boat-ride, staring out to sea. Once back on land, Nero had hopped into Dante’s car uninvited to avoid being abandoned in the parking lot. He’d slept in the backseat rather than risk being dumped at any of the truck stops or cheap motels they rested at, whenever Dante seemed sick of driving.

 

It was plain from the start that he wasn’t welcome, but Nero was nothing if not persistent. Besides, he hadn’t known what else to do. His home town was destroyed, and his only remaining family member hated his guts for failing to save their brother. Never mind that Credo had doomed himself, or that Nero had managed to help save thousands of other lives. He’d figured his only chance at a real life was trailing after Dante, but that just proved that his capacity to be wrong was nearly infinite. Dante didn’t so much live as go through the motions, a dark, violent echo of humanity. Lacking other options, Nero went along for the ride.

 

Two weeks in, Dante apparently decided that ignoring Nero was not making him go away, and beat the hell out of him instead. Not without a fight, of course; Nero wouldn’t take that shit lying down. It’d been obvious, though, that all their previous battles had just been Dante toying with him. Even a punch from the Saviour felt like a love-tap compared to Dante working him over. In a matter of minutes (and Nero was admittedly surprised he’d held out that long) he was on his belly on the pavement, his face against the edge of the sidewalk, hearing Dante’s booted footsteps approach and knowing in his gut that he was about to get curb-stomped into oblivion. He’d whispered a plea for mercy because nothing else would’ve saved him at that point; Dante’s eyes were as red as his blood-coloured coat.

 

It still shamed him to think of it, but even cringe-worthy embarrassment was better than dying in a gutter, and he was still alive now, six months later. Whatever Dante had been on about back then, he seemed to have mostly gotten it out of his system. Dante, while moody, usually sympathized with the terrified people who relied on him. He grumbled when they couldn’t pay, but he never refused to help. His compassion didn’t always extend to Nero, but Nero didn’t expect that from anyone.

 

His main concern was surviving the days when Dante utterly despised the sight of him. There were times when he figured he’d been allowed to stay only because Dante didn’t want the hassle of dumping his corpse in the woods.

 

He could’ve left and saved Dante the effort. Nero had thought about it, had even packed up his admittedly meagre possessions a few times. But he couldn’t make himself leave. He’d had six months to consider it, to plan a new life away from the Devil May Cry office and Fortuna both. Once he’d gotten all the way across town, both eyes blackened from a fight with Dante, before he found himself doubling back. Try as he might, he didn’t hate Dante, and sometimes, it seemed like Dante didn’t hate him.

 

As they’d gotten used to each other, things had gradually improved. Dante had taken him to a gunsmith, a classic car show, and to every rock concert that bumbled through the city’s wretched excuse for a music scene. He’d shown Nero the various districts of Capulet, introducing him to mercenaries, mob bosses, occultists, and strippers. Dante had made a place for Nero in his life (and not just as a punching bag), and that was more than Nero had hoped. No one could ever accuse him of being an ingrate: he had a roof over his head and a job that never got old, and he was willing to put up with Dante’s occasional brutality if it meant that he got to stay with Dante the rest of the time.  

 

The bottle, nearly empty, was shoved back towards him, interrupting Nero from his musing. The jukebox, somehow still working despite its battered and bullet-ridden state, played quietly in the corner, softly clicking from one Led Zeppelin song to another. Inside the office, the sound of the street’s traffic was muffled, almost imperceptible. It was almost like they’d stepped into another world as soon as they crossed over the threshold. Nero opened his eyes and winced, meeting Dante’s icy stare.   

 

“What?” he muttered, palming the bottle and letting his talons click against the glass. He wondered what would happen if he smashed Dante’s face with it, if it would start a fight or if Dante would just shrug it off like he did sometimes. Even now, Nero couldn’t always predict his behaviour. It’d been over a month since the last time Dante had beat him up (he couldn’t call it ‘sparring’ because for that Dante always pulled his punches). He didn’t know what had set Dante off, except maybe sometimes he didn’t like Nero’s face.

 

“I don’t want any more. I’m gonna get some water.” Nero could hear his words start to slur. He hauled himself to his feet and stepped away from the bar, unsure of his balance. Dante stretched languidly beside him, his fingertips grazing Nero’s chest. He pushed just enough to rock Nero back a bit, then grinned at him, showing far too many teeth.

 

“Dizzy, kid?”

 

“Fuck you,” Nero snarled, but without any malice. “I don’t know how we’re not dead, drinking this much.”

 

“You know why,” Dante’s smile turned vicious, and Nero froze for a second, an involuntary reaction to the presence of a dangerous predator. His devil blood woke up, and his arm flickered brightly, the slightest touch of adrenaline easing into his veins. Nero scowled and snatched the empty pitcher, managing not to stagger as he headed for the kitchen.

 

“You’re an asshole,” he hissed over his shoulder, ignoring the laugh that lilted through the room behind him. Six months living with this man and Dante could still get him going with just eye contact and body language. It made sense though. Dante was as slick and treacherous as a bloodied knife, and if Nero wasn’t careful, Dante might decide to hang him by his guts from the rafters. Some days, it seemed more likely than others.

 

Nero filled the pitcher from the tap in the kitchen and then washed the last traces of blood from his hands. The day’s mission had been a messy one, but that wasn’t ever a real problem. Both he and Dante were at their best when drenched in blood, and, though it had taken them a while, they’d learned to work together without getting in each other’s way. Nero felt more solidarity for their little team than he’d ever had for his platoon in the Order of the Sword. He didn’t understand his loyalty to Dante; it seemed as irrational as everything else about his life these days.

 

He splashed some water on his face, wiping it off with a dishtowel. The clock on the stove read 6:45, and Nero wondered how much harassment he’d get from Dante if he gave up on drinking and went to bed. He yawned and stretched, deciding against it. As uncomfortable as Dante’s attention sometimes was, Nero craved it. That he hated to admit that fact, even to himself, changed nothing. They were two of a kind; they couldn’t escape each other any more than they could escape themselves.

 

***

 

_Maybe I’m lonely and you’re something to do…_

 

The last of the day’s sunlight slanted through the window blinds, turning the interior of the shop a dusky gold. Dante prowled from the bar to the couch, and sat sprawled across the cushions, bottle number seven in hand. He turned on the small, ancient television and began flipping channels, grumbling about the picture-quality. Nero walked to the couch with exaggerated care, unable to gauge how intoxicated he actually was. Devil blood really screwed with his perspective at times. All the time, really; why else would he still be here?

 

“So, you are drunk, then.” It was more of a statement than a question, Dante’s gaze flicking swiftly up Nero’s body. He could almost feel the razor-sharp assessment.

 

“Yeah, I guess,” Nero glared blearily. “It’s your fault, too.” He rubbed at his eyes, settling next to Dante and taking a sip of water. Dante handed him the bottle of whiskey.

 

“That’s unfair and you know it. No one makes you stay and drink with me, kid.” There seemed to be more in Dante’s words, a challenge left unspoken, but Nero was too tired to pick a fight. He set his glass on the table and took a gulp from the bottle, feeling the alcohol burn all the way down his throat. It felt like Dante watched him swallow, but then he couldn’t be sure.

 

“Guess that makes me a masochist, then.” Nero wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Seeing as how I just can’t bear to be without you,” he drawled, rolling his eyes. He stifled a yawn, wondering how hard it would be to drink until he passed out, and if it’d be worth it. Devil blood might give a ridiculous level of alcohol tolerance, but it didn’t do much for the hangover.

 

Dante huffed in amusement, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Poor kid. My heart bleeds for you, it really does.” He reclaimed the bottle, palming it carelessly, and drank another third. Nero stole the remote while Dante was otherwise occupied and flicked through stations until he found one with minimal static.

 

“ _Silent Hill_? Really?”

 

“Sorry old man, but I’m pretty sure they only show _Zombie Strippers_ after 10pm on school-nights. You’ll have to wait.”

 

“Could you at least have found something… not terrible?”

 

“So, there is stuff out there too hokey even for you, huh? C’mon, this has got all those freaky nurses.”

 

Dante objected, but Nero got his way eventually. He got his way quite a bit, if he wanted to be honest about it. Dante did indulge him, despite their constant spats and the way Nero’s abrasive personality seemed to smash against everything. It made it all the more disconcerting on the days when Dante didn’t like him. Those days it seemed like Nero was suddenly dealing with a completely different person, one that had no qualms about methodically cracking his ribs.

 

Dante had told him once, picking him up off the floor after putting him there with a series of kicks to his belly, that his expectations were too low. That he shouldn’t allow himself to be treated like this, that Fortuna had given him some seriously fucked-up ideas about his own worth, and that what Dante had done should’ve driven him away for good. Nero reminded him that any attempt at defending himself had only made Dante hit him harder, and Dante had frowned and conceded the point. He’d wiped the blood from Nero’s chin and shoved him towards the door, seeming genuinely puzzled when Nero refused to leave.

 

Nero shook off his reflections and settled in to watch the movie, tucked in too close to Dante because the television was tiny and Dante had claimed the best seat earlier. He rustled around until he was comfortable, slouched into the sofa, propping his booted feet on the coffee-table. At his side, Dante smelt of blood and leather, the heat of his presence better than a blanket in the drafty office. Nero relaxed against Dante, letting the warmth and the alcohol lull him as much as it could. Huddled next to Dante, he was as contented as he’d ever been. He figured it was irrefutable proof that the world was fucked.  

 

He realized, thirty minutes later, that Dante had nearly finished another half of the whiskey and was now studying him, eyes narrowed. Nero turned to glower at him, something sarcastic broiling on the tip of his tongue, when Dante reached out and gripped his jaw. Hard. Nero knew he’d bruised instantly and tried to pull away, hearing his teeth grind. Dante lifted Nero’s chin, turning his head forcibly into the light.

 

“Let go, you freak,” Nero snarled, jaw aching. He wrapped his devil bringer around Dante’s wrist and squeezed, wondering how fast Dante could heal a broken arm, and how many of Nero’s bones he’d break in retaliation. Dante tugged him forward, scanning Nero’s face with smoldering intensity. Nero tightened his grip. “C’mon, what the hell?”   

 

Dante’s expression turned thoughtful. “Sometimes I hate looking at you,” he stated mildly, his thumb sliding over Nero’s cheek.

 

“Yeah, I figured that out when I first arrived. Now kindly fuck off.” Nero tapped his talons along the inside of Dante’s wrist. The movement wasn’t so much a threat as a warning of the mess it would make when his claws sliced through flesh and tendons. Dante’s eyes glittered dangerously, and Nero regretted all the alcohol he’d consumed. He had no desire to get into a fight with Dante while his reflexes were numbed with booze. He would if he had too, but he didn’t like his odds. Nero returned Dante’s stare evenly, reaching for the half-empty bottle and taking a sip.

 

“Sorry,” Dante muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with one gloved hand. “It’s just… strange, y’know?” He paused, watching Nero pensively. “I really thought you’d stay in Fortuna, afterwards. Or head out west, to hunt in the mountains. It’s… not good, sometimes, you being here.”

 

Nero snorted, startled by the unexpected apology. “Sorry to disappoint.” He handed the bottle to Dante, and leaned back into the sofa, watching the screen once more.

 

A minute passed in silence, and then Dante said, “Not always, Nero,” so softly it was barely audible. He slung an arm across Nero’s shoulders and Nero barely suppressed a flinch. He felt Dante’s fingers twine into his hair, ever so slightly. On the television, a woman wandered through an abandoned house, clutching a handgun like it would save her. Dante leaned closer and pressed a warm kiss to the side of Nero’s throat. Nero elbowed him away without a glance.

 

It wasn’t as though they hadn’t slept together before, just that Nero couldn’t understand the attraction between them. Sex was more an extension of their physical violence than anything else, the natural and unavoidable culmination of a vicious fight. Something pulled him to Dante in a way that seemed inevitable. It was as though he’d been doomed to this man the day he’d been born, and there was nothing he could do about it. It didn’t help that he’d thought he’d had a type, and it was more smooth skin and creamy breasts than, for example, ivory-haired devils. He didn’t like the idea of submitting to another man, and he sure as hell didn’t like the idea of submitting to Dante. But he had. Repeatedly. As though he hadn’t had a choice.

 

As far as Dante went, Nero was sure he didn’t care who he slept with. In fact, he would’ve guessed that Dante fucked him as an afterthought, or when going out to find someone else seemed inconvenient. Or maybe when Nero had chosen to submit the first time, rather than die, it had signified something in a demonic sense, even if it hadn’t been sexual at that point. He thought it was weird that Dante could both hate the sight of him and want to fuck him, but that just proved how little he knew Dante. To hear Lady tell it, before Nero had arrived, Dante had spent his nights prowling dive bars and strip clubs, seducing the evening’s entertainment home with him.

 

He still did, sometimes. Just two weeks ago Nero had startled a busty redhead as she’d lounged at the kitchen table. She’d been dressed in a t-shirt and nothing else, and quickly panicked when she’d seen his arm. Dante hadn’t been too long marching her out the door with enough change for a cab. A week before that, there’d been a laughing young warlock with strange, silvery tattoos all over his tawny-brown skin. He’d spoken in German and Persian and Arabic and Swahili, but not English, and Dante either hadn’t cared or knew enough scraps of other languages to communicate.

 

Nero didn’t ask where exactly Dante found them. Dante would’ve interpreted that as either jealousy (which was correct, although Nero didn’t understand it himself), or interest (resulting in Dante bringing home someone for Nero, too. He shuddered to think of how _that_ would turn out).  

 

The fingers in his hair tightened to just the edge of pain, and Nero finally looked at Dante.

 

“What?” he demanded. He tossed his head, trying unsuccessfully to free himself. The movement reminded him unsubtly of all the alcohol he’d consumed earlier. Dante didn’t let him go, and Nero’s arm flashed in warning. He caught Dante around the throat with his clawed hand, hoping that he’d back off a bit.

 

“This is me saying no, in case you’re wondering,” Nero stated, getting a half-drunk smirk from Dante in response.

 

“Sure thing, kid,” he drawled, his irreverent tone at odds with the flicker of crimson in his eyes. Dante released Nero and raised his hands in mock surrender. Nero knew better, unease settling in the pit of his stomach. He tensed, and Dante’s smirk widened, as though he would never dream of breaking Nero’s jaw or fracturing his pelvis, as though that had been a completely different person. A devil, even.

 

Nero let go of Dante and heaved himself backwards, trying to get out of range. Dante was faster, preternaturally so. Without any warning, he grabbed the back of Nero’s shirt and threw him forward. Nero somersaulted onto the coffee-table, knocking his head against the surface hard enough that his vision sparked. He was back on his feet an instant later, so pissed off he could barely see straight. Although _that_ problem could also have been the combination of a concussion, and enough whiskey to kill a horse.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Nero demanded, knowing it was a trap before he launched himself at Dante, but doing it anyway.

 

***

 

_Maybe I’m broken and I can’t be fixed_

The fight was vicious, but Nero was willing to admit its conclusion was predictable. He was too drunk to brawl effectively, and conversely, Dante was too intoxicated to remember to pull his punches. He didn’t think that Dante was actually trying to hurt him, not yet, but then Dante was strong enough to cause serious harm without any effort. The battle rolled from playful to serious and back again, until Nero took a full-force blow to the solar plexus and hit the floor. Dante landed on top of him a second later, driving the breath from his body again. Nero was too stunned to even lift his hands to tap out, and caught a pretty good smack across the face before Dante realized he wasn’t fighting anymore.

 

“Do you give up?” Dante clasped his wrists and pinned them to the floor. His tone was playful, but Nero could feel his bones grating together and growled at the sensation. Dante leaned forward, all his weight on Nero’s arms and waist, and brushed his mouth across Nero’s. He wasn’t even breathing hard. “Do you?” He asked again, apparently expecting Nero to show throat and submit.

 

Nero shook his head without thinking, still trying to regain his breath. The room tilted around him, and he ended up with his face against the rough wooden planks of the floor. Dante’s knee pressed down on his demonic arm, and the other was wrenched behind him, twisted up across his back and held there with Dante’s brutal strength. Nero felt his shoulder grind in its socket.

 

“Give up?” Dante put his other knee on the small of Nero’s back and let his weight settle there. Nero squirmed, blood in his mouth from where his teeth had split open his lip. The knee on his right kidney went from painful to excruciating after a couple seconds. He had a feeling that Dante wasn’t joking anymore.

 

“No,” he spat, knowing it was a terrible idea but too angry to care. He stifled a yelp as Dante yanked his arm further. He was suddenly so hard it hurt, but there was no way he’d let Dante know that. Disgust rolled through him, and he thrashed, but Dante kept him firmly pinned. Pain radiated up his arm, through his shoulder, and down his back. Nero was sure he could hear the bones creak in protest; muscles and ligaments about to tear.

 

“Submit, or I’ll make you,” Dante growled softly. Nero barked a laugh.

 

“How? You gonna break my arm? If that’s how you treat your friends, no wonder Lady and Trish don’t live here anymore.”

 

There was a moment’s pause while Nero honestly wondered if Dante would kill him, if the devil inside would just take over and smash him out of existence. Dante used his free hand to roughly push Nero’s face back to the floor. He was going to have a nasty bruise across his cheekbone tomorrow, provided he lived through the night. Without releasing him, Dante leaned forward.

 

“You think you’re my friend, Nero?” he hissed, his breath warm against Nero’s ear. Dante twisted his arm until the bone was about to splinter. Nero gasped in pain and kicked out helplessly, furious but unable to free himself. Ultimately, he had no leverage against Dante’s impossible strength. None at all.

 

“Okay, okay, you sick fuck, let go. I submit,” Nero panted. He’d broken this arm once before as a child and while he had no desire to repeat the experience, he healed much faster these days. He just… didn’t want Dante to do it. He didn’t think Dante wanted to do it either, not that _that_ would stop him. Nero had to draw the line somewhere though, even if Dante couldn’t. “And they call me a psycho,” he huffed, wincing as Dante released him. “I’ve got nothing on you. Get off me.”

 

Dante’s weight was gone from his back after a moment, but he didn’t move away. Before Nero could get up, he felt his hair brushed away from the nape of his neck. A second later, Dante sank his teeth into the flesh there. Hard. Nero yelped despite himself, catching a whiff of fresh blood. He winced when the bite was followed by a slick press of tongue. Dante’s hands reached under him as he started to get up, skimming down the front of his shirt and then sliding over the zipper of his jeans. It took every scrap of dignity he had left to keep from bucking into Dante’s palm.

 

Nero shoved him away, staggering to his feet and putting some much needed space between them. He wished he’d bailed the second they’d returned home, begged off and headed to his room the instant he’d realized how dark Dante’s mood had gone. Decisions had consequences, and Nero knew better than anyone the far-reaching implications of living with a devil. Even if it was with a sometimes-friendly one like Dante, who at first seemed completely different from the usual chew-your-face-off variety, until you got to know him better.

 

He clenched his hands into fists and watched Dante head back to the sofa, recognizing that there were a lot of things he didn’t know about his own devil blood, either… Like the way he immediately followed Dante across the office, so swiftly it was as though they were bound together and he had no choice but to trail along. Dante moved with an easy grace, his back to Nero because Nero was no _real_ threat, and they both knew it. He licked the blood from his lips as though pinning Nero to the floor and sinking his teeth into him was the most natural thing in the world. Bruises on his face, from the few punches Nero had managed to land, faded within moments. On the television, ash continued to fall like snow over the ruined town, and death seemed inevitable.

 

“Come here, Nero.” Dante’s eyes flickered from blue to red and back again. He patted the cushion beside him.

 

Nero shook his head, considering, as he often did, about heading for the door. It wasn’t as if Dante would chase him. Leaving was pointless, though. The Devil May Cry office was exactly where he wanted to be, for all that he couldn’t understand it. Nero swayed a few steps closer, glaring anywhere but at Dante. He stopped directly in front of Dante, one hand reaching to touch the back of his neck. His fingers came away bloody, but the wound was already closing.

 

“That was fucked up.” _But no more than usual._ Nero shifted his weight, rolling his bruised shoulder. His heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he was scared. Dante looked at him like he’d love to gut him, like he’d get off on seeing Nero flayed open, blood staining the floor. They stared at each other for a long moment, until Nero couldn’t stand it any longer. He reached first, and Dante nodded in agreement, catching hold of Nero’s belt and guiding him closer.

 

Nero sank down to straddle Dante’s lap, still half-hard. He rested his hands on Dante’s broad shoulders to steady himself, wondering whether he was dealing with the person or the monster, or if it really mattered. _One and the same, really._ Dante watched him with half-lidded eyes, and Nero forgot his earlier refusal, leaning in for a kiss that was offered distractedly, almost as an afterthought. Dante reached down beside the sofa and found the last of the whiskey, remarkably un-spilt. He handed the bottle to Nero, who downed it without thinking. It felt like liquid fire against the cuts in his mouth.

 

“Why?” He asked, adjusting his balance until he was comfortable on Dante’s thighs. Dante shrugged, his fingers working on Nero’s belt buckle. “The devil blood, maybe?” Nero suggested, dropping the bottle to the floor and watching it roll away. “Or just you being your asshole self?”

 

Dante pulled Nero’s belt from its loops and tossed it aside. He unbuttoned Nero’s jeans and deftly tugged down the zipper. Nero caught his hands and began stripping off the fingerless gloves. His belly clenched, and he couldn’t keep his hips from rolling forward. Perspiration dotted his skin, but he couldn’t tell if it was from exertion or fear. “Well?”

 

“Because you let me. You stay, and you allow this, and I can’t decide why. Sometimes I look at you and I just want…” Dante hesitated, worrying his lip between his teeth. He looked more human for an instant than he had all day. He shook his head, refusing to say more. He freed his hands and slid them under the hem of Nero’s shirt, lifting it up over his head and discarding the fabric onto the floor. Nero leaned in again and Dante kissed him deeply, opening his mouth to Nero’s tongue. He gripped Dante’s shirt to keep his hands from shaking.

 

“And you want what?” He prompted, mouth against Dante’s. He rocked his hips slightly, eyes closed, and Dante’s hands slid down his back, settling at his waist. Dante drew back for a second, seeming to assess him, and then abruptly shoved Nero off his lap. Nero sprawled on the floor, his arm flickering in the darkening room. Before he could get up, Dante grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him forward.

 

“I think it’s fairly obvious what I want, Nero.” Dante spread his knees and yanked Nero between them. Leaving one hand knotted in Nero’s hair, Dante gestured to his crotch with the other. “Do me a favour.”

 

“Oh yeah, right,” Nero complained. “Like I’m gonna give you head after the way you’ve been acting.” He braced his hands on Dante’s thighs, kneeling awkwardly in front of the man. The position sent a twinge of pain up his spine, but heat pooled in his groin, and Nero silently cursed himself.  

 

“It’ll be worth your while. Besides, I’m not asking, Nero.” Dante’s tone was light, but the hand in his hair was insistent. It was enough to get Nero hard all over again, and he was honestly glad that Dante had opened his jeans earlier. Still, there was only so much he was willing to put up with. At least, he told himself that.

 

“And if I don’t?” He asked, watching Dante’s eyes darken until there was only a sliver of icy blue visible around his pupils. Dante’s free hand slid to his throat, his thumb running over Nero’s trachea and applying just enough pressure to make him swallow. Fingers traced over his bruised cheek as though checking for broken bones, then trailed over his jaw, lifting his chin just a little. Nero recognized the hold; the threat was blatant. Dante would break his neck.

 

“I think you know.” Dante released Nero’s throat and set about unbuttoning his leathers. “Hurry up.”

 

Nero submitted. It wasn’t as though his devil blood would let him do anything else, even if he’d wanted. He opened his mouth and let Dante push inside, his jaw aching after the first few minutes. Both of Dante’s hands fisted in his hair again, loose enough that he could move but preventing him from backing all the way off the rigid cock. He’d only done this once before, a month ago when he’d been happy and only a little drunk and had wanted to share his good mood with Dante. Nero couldn’t remember the exact reasons why, but afterwards Dante had made it very much worth his while. Of the pair of them, Dante was the one who knew what he was doing. Nero learned quickly, but he had a feeling that Dante was more into the idea of him on his knees, rather than anything Nero could do for him while he was there.

 

As it was, Dante wasn’t all that responsive. He watched Nero with darkened eyes, his breath coming maybe a touch faster than usual. Nero could barely inhale, his head buzzing with whiskey, knowing he was drooling on Dante’s lap but not much caring. Eventually, Dante let go of his hair, his hands sliding over Nero’s bruised back and shoulders, rubbing circles onto his skin. Nero could actually hear him breathing now, but even that was just barely noticeable over his own panting.

 

Nero shuffled closer on his knees, and let Dante push deeper. He hollowed his cheeks and got a soft sound as a reaction, Dante’s fingers sliding over the wound on his neck. He glanced up and saw Dante run his tongue over his teeth, not the fangs he’d bared earlier for the bite but still too sharp to be human. Dante noticed him looking and grinned, and Nero felt himself flush. He didn’t want to know what Dante thought of him. He didn’t know how Dante could fight beside him, trust him, protect him, and still, it seemed, constantly want to put him on his knees.

 

Dante’s hands worked their way back into his hair, massaging his scalp and then gripping tightly. Nero heard his name murmured and looked up again, but Dante forced him back down. Nero choked, trying to push himself away but unable to get far. He couldn’t breathe, gasping for air as Dante fucked his mouth. Nero didn’t know how long it took, but his talons sank into the floorboards and his vision went black at the edges before Dante hissed his name and shoved in hard enough to gag him. Nero spluttered and coughed, mouth full of cum and hating the taste. As soon as Dante let go he staggered to his feet and hurried towards the bathroom.

 

“Hey kid, where’re you going?” Dante called from the sofa, a laugh in his husky voice that sent hatred rushing along Nero’s veins.

 

He fumbled open the door and spat in the sink, rinsing his mouth a couple times. Still unsteady on his feet, he snapped the lock into place. Nero splashed water on his face, then stood gripping the edge of the sink, studying his bruises in the cracked and dirty mirror. The fluorescent light flickered and buzzed overhead. His mouth was bloody, his lips swollen. He looked scared and miserable, even to himself. The remnants of his drunkenness hovered in his temples, threatening a brutal hangover.

 

Dante didn’t give him long. Nero had barely managed to calm his breathing when a knock rattled the door. For a moment he considered ignoring Dante, but that was as unlikely as him packing up and leaving. It was pointless to hope the lock would hold though, and after a moment Nero opened the door.

 

***

 

_Bitter and twisted, you make me feel sick_

Dante’s smirk greeted him as the door swung inward.

 

“You think that’s fucking funny?” Nero snarled, determined not to back off. There’d be no point. Dante wouldn’t let him surrender half-way. Even now there was still a flicker of red in his eyes. The pair glowered at each other, assessing, then Nero gave in to his temper and took a swing.

 

He was easily outmatched, the alcohol slowing him to the point where Dante didn’t even have to try. He blocked the punch and pushed Nero roughly against the wall. Nero thrashed, Dante’s hand sliding into his open pants and wrenching a groan out of him. Teeth pressed against his throat for a moment, Dante’s hot mouth sliding over his flesh and sending a shiver down his spine. He shoved Dante away from him and got the violence back tenfold; Dante backhanded him with a casualness that seemed to surprise even himself.

 

Nero’s head cracked against the tiled wall with a bright flash of pain, and Dante didn’t let him regain his balance but pressed full length against him, using the wall to hold him up. Dante kissed him hard, one hand gripping his jaw while the other slid south. Nero gasped for air and Dante forced his tongue into his mouth, growling softly. He pushed a knee between Nero’s thighs and Nero ground down without thinking, reaching distractedly for Dante’s waist to pull him closer.

 

"So you do want it, then?” Dante’s whispered hoarsely, pressed so tightly against him that Nero could barely breathe. Strong arms turned him around, then shoved him face first against the wall. Hands that might’ve been gentle with a human lover ran brusquely down Nero’s lean frame, leaving red welts in their wake. Dante stepped closer still, grinding against him. Fingernails scratched over his sensitive nipples, and Nero flinched and hissed, blindly lashing out with an elbow.

 

He didn’t know much after that, but Nero hoped he gave as good as he got. Dante must have hit him too hard because suddenly Nero found himself on his back on the grimy floor, with Dante kneeling between his legs, ungently shaking him awake.

 

“I didn’t mean…” he started, as though that was anything close to an apology. Nero blinked to clear his vision. Rough hands slid to his waist, and he lifted his hips thoughtlessly to help Dante tug down his jeans, right back into it without a pause. The tile floor seemed icy cold beneath him, but then Dante’s heat poured over him, all blunt nails and sharp teeth.

 

Nero was still hard but Dante ignored his erection, focusing instead on leaving a line of bruises along his throat and collarbone. A kiss that was more of a bite was pressed to his shoulder, followed by a palm against his chest, holding him flat to the floor when Nero moved to sit up.

 

“Stay there.” Dante climbed to his feet, rummaging through the medicine cabinet but too drunk to be particularly efficient about it. Blood ran in a rivulet down his spine from a scratch across his shoulder that Nero couldn’t remember inflicting. He certainly had a concussion this time, and it seemed like a reasonable excuse for his bad decisions. Dante fumbled with a box of condoms, tossed them aside and returned with a packet of lube. He stood for a moment looking down at Nero, sprawled and panting in front of him, until Nero could barely stand it. Dante’s gaze made his skin crawl. Dante took another step closer, his unzipped pants riding low on his hips, eyes nearly black. Just when Nero’s brain began to demand that he get up and reassess his life choices, Dante knelt beside him.

 

He was pulled forward until he was off his back and onto his knees, slinging an arm over the side of the old claw-footed tub to keep his balance as Dante put him where he wanted him. Maybe he looked like someone else with the way Dante kept pushing his face away. He spared a glance for the door, not far, but it might as well have been on a different planet. Dante gripped Nero’s hips, nudging his legs apart with a knee before pressing two slick fingers into him. It was more preparation than he’d been expecting, and he yelped when Dante curled his fingers, stroking over his prostate. Dante laughed softly against his shoulder, and Nero nearly cracked the enamel under his claws, forcing down the rage that came unbidden.

 

He felt Dante kneel between his spread legs and squirmed uncomfortably as a third finger twisted into him. He might’ve killed the other man if such a thing were possible, and if every fiber of his being hadn’t resisted, insisting on submitting. He hissed when Dante removed his fingers, then flinched away when Dante’s erection nudged against him.

 

“Dante,” he muttered, as the hunter caught him and pulled him back into his arms. He turned his head and Dante kissed him open-mouthed, fingers bruising his hips. The kiss turned rough after a moment, and Nero felt his body answer with a neediness he despised. Dante was smooth as silk against him, pulling him down onto his swollen cock until Nero was completely filled with it. He sat backwards on Dante’s lap, still half sprawled over the tub’s edge. His legs shook, and Dante’s hands left his hips for a moment to stroke over his thighs. His movement changed the penetration ever so slightly, and Nero moaned before he could stop himself.

 

“You like that?” Dante crooned into his ear, holding him close while Nero trembled, gasping open-mouthed, eyes wet, unable to reply. He leaned forward further, focusing on his breathing. Dante’s first hard thrust knocked him off balance more than the whiskey had earlier, and he scrabbled uselessly at the floor to brace himself. Dante’s grip on his waist reeled him back, impaling him with a slow burn that seemed to set every nerve ending on fire. Nero didn’t even recognize the sound he made as his own voice. He thought he heard Dante laugh at him again, and felt his face flush with a mix of shame and lust and fury. It felt inevitable; it always did.

 

“What’s the matter, Nero?” Dante drawled out his name mockingly, reaching around and squeezing Nero’s neglected erection. Nero bucked into his curled fingers and Dante allowed it once or twice before moving his hand away. He sneered at Nero’s hiss of frustration, bending him further forward and dragging his teeth over his spine. Nero shivered under him; each slow, hard thrust achingly deep. A few minutes in and he was keening at each slide of Dante’s cock, occasionally managing to roll his hips back to meet it.

 

A hand in his hair yanked his head back, and Nero arched helplessly, reaching up and shredding Dante’s arm with his claws. Dante didn’t let go, refusing to let Nero pull away, grinding their bodies together insistently. Blood dripped onto Nero’s shoulder and chest, the scent of it waking up the darker parts of his mind. Dante pressed a kiss to his throat before biting down viciously, dragging a scream from Nero. His eyes watered from the shock of it, wanting to tear the other man’s throat out. He turned as much as he could to bare his teeth at Dante, but Dante only grinned and kissed him breathless.

 

A moment later he was shoved back down, Dante shifting their position so that each thrust stung in a new way. Nero wondered again why he’d stayed, what the attraction was of being roughly fucked on the bathroom floor. In his mind he could convince himself that he’d stayed for the work, the thrill of the hunt, but his body betrayed him every time. His blood was as bad as Dante’s, maybe worse, because his would make him pick a fight he couldn’t win as though it wanted to be beaten. It wouldn’t let him back down until after he’d been thoroughly thrashed. It wouldn’t let him leave. He pushed at Dante, and Dante never failed to push back. Dante couldn’t help it either, and Nero wondered if Dante hated him for it.

 

He must’ve asked it out loud, because Dante lost his rhythm. Dante’s weight rested against his back, and for a moment they breathed in unison. A hand smoothed over his belly, and Nero trembled as Dante shifted behind him. Dante rammed back into Nero hard enough to wrench a shout from him.

 

“Is that what you think?” The words were a low growl. Dante filled him repeatedly, leaving him breathless. Nero caught hold of the tub’s edge again, looking for anything to brace against. He couldn’t match the pace and let his head loll slackly, barely able to focus enough to form words.

 

“I think it’s… it’s a fair question,” he panted. Dante’s hand curled around his erection and he moaned helplessly.

 

“You’re enough to drive someone to drink.” Dante’s lips brushed against his spine.

 

“Fuck,” Nero huffed. “You’d drink without me.”

 

Dante grunted in response, shoving Nero’s face to the floor. Nero thrashed a bit, but only managed to hurt himself, feeling his own flesh tear. His traitorous, drunken body surrendered to Dante. His teeth and lips met the tile at an unfortunate angle, smearing more blood across the floor. Dante knocked him flat on his belly and climbed on top of him, holding him down with his full weight and no small amount of demonic power. Nero felt like he was drowning in it, his heart fluttering in his chest. Dante rutted violently against him, completely dominant, growling mockingly at Nero’s every whimper. When Dante’s fangs sank into the nape of his neck again, reopening the wounds, Nero screamed and started to beg.

 

“Dante… please, I-” His voice hitched and broke with every thrust, but it didn’t matter because Dante wasn’t listening. Nero was sure he was smothering, his body shaking, and when he finally came it was more like having a panic attack than an orgasm. He screamed again, bucking helplessly. His vision flickered white, static in his ears. Dante laughed at him, then pinned him down and fucked him harder.

 

Nero was still sobbing for breath, face against the floor, when Dante finished a few minutes later. He felt the other man go still, his fingers bruising. Dante pulled out roughly and Nero couldn’t suppress a moan. His legs shook and he couldn’t make them stop, even when he managed to roll onto his side. He curled up a bit, nausea beginning to ruin what little was left of his pleasure. Getting up to shower seemed like an impossible task. He swatted Dante’s hands away from him irritably. His mouth tasted like blood and whiskey, and keeping his eyes open seemed like too much effort. He didn’t want to look at Dante. The room was beginning to spin, just a bit, and Nero pressed his forehead against the floor, trying to keep from retching.

 

“You can’t leave, can you?” Dante was still right beside him, for some reason. “Or you’d have gone already… You poor fucker…”

 

***

 

_Oh, is there no way out?_

 

It was the phone, and not the mid-morning light from the window, that woke Nero up hours later. With consciousness, pain set in, his vision pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His body ached fiercely, inside and out, and his nausea returned full force. He sat up slowly, realizing with a start that he was in Dante’s room, in Dante’s bed, and that Dante slept face down beside him, unaware of the shrilling phone.

 

He’d never spent the night in this room, and Nero figured Dante must’ve carried him there after he’d passed out. A vague memory flickered through his mind, getting fucked on his back on the bed, his arms around Dante, but it was gone just as quickly. Nero eased himself off the bloodstained sheets, determined not to disturb Dante with movement, even if he was deaf to the phone. He drank the glass of water on the nightstand, wondering if it’d been left for him. It took all of his concentration not to puke it back up, and thus fortified Nero stumbled down the stairs towards the phone.

 

“Devil May Cry. You have the password?”

 

Sunlight lit up the dusty office, and Nero wrote out the details of the next mission. He hung up the phone without saying goodbye, and limped to the kitchen for another glass of water.  It was a new day, it always was, not that he’d ever managed to change anything. Fresh starts were wasted on him; all his life was stark evidence of that. Nero looked at the door and flexed his talons. Shaking his head, he wandered back upstairs to wake up Dante.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback on my writing is always appreciated. I spent years wondering if I should actually post this – it’s a bit dark, even for me. Anyway, thanks for reading.


End file.
